


Mercurial

by Druid_Moon



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-27
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2017-11-15 04:31:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Druid_Moon/pseuds/Druid_Moon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of meetings between the mad and the lonely.</p><p>**Rating has been changed to reflect the final chapter.**</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Their first meeting was a disaster, and it was silently agreed by all parties involved that certain words and phrases (kidnapping, drugging, prisoners, telescopes, concussions, windows) would never be mentioned in certain company (Snow/Mary-Margaret, for fear of what she might do without a window nearby, and James/Charming/David, for while he was a fool he was still a protective husband and father of a daughter too ancient for her years). 

-o-

There were times that she remembered that night and wished things had been done differently. He had been charming and conscientious (before the drugging and kidnapping parts), and his house was beautiful (even if it was patterned to look like playing cards and forests and filled with hats and telescopes). When she remembered the way he looked at her on the road before all the craziness that came later, intelligence in his eyes and mirth twisting his lips into that half-smile and how that contrasted with he looked at her in the hat room, intense and dedicated and regretful all in one, something lurched and burned deep in her belly. When she thought of the way his hand had felt knotted in her hair and the way he murmured into her ear and heat whispered across her skin, she shivered. The thoughts those memories inspired were shoved down and away, locked in a cell and the key thrown away, because she could not have feelings for a psychotic loon who had kidnapped her mother as part of a ridiculous trap to make a magic hat-

(And she would groan and search for the bottle of aged whiskey that Leroy had taken to making in an old abandoned cellar, because _that_ story would never work and she needed the heavy burn to scorch away any and all feelings that were turning into something she never wanted to think about again)

He had been a desperate man, wanting only his daughter, and she didn't believe him, refused to believe him, and nearly broke him as a result. It wasn't until she saw the proof in the damned book that she began to realize just what she had done, what her pride had almost cost, and had been filled with guilt. She searched for him then, searched the woods and the house and the back alleys in a desperate attempt to find him and apologize for everything that had happened (even though the rational part of her brain insisted he had gotten what he deserved, getting kicked out of a window and into that goddamn _hat)._

It hit her with the force of one of Snow's haymakers one night, the idea that she understood and knew Jefferson better than anyone else in town, because only she understood the desperation and the fear and the fact that all of that combined with those lips of his and those goddamn _leather_ _pants_ only made him all the more dangerous to her, because he had managed to get under her guard and past her shields and now made himself a nice cozy place in her heart.

-o-

He always remembered that night, and always wished things had been done differently. Every time he saw Grace off to school, every time he stepped into the living room or the forest room or the hat room or even saw a telescope or that goddamn metal teapot, he remembered. He remembered how it felt to have her limp and heavy in his arms, how she reminded him of summer, warm and smelling of oranges and sunshine and wildflowers. He remembered the way her head lolled on his shoulder, how right it felt to have her against him all soft and trusting.

He remembered, all with a sense of shame, because he had lured her there under false pretenses and he knew it was wrong, that it was despicable and so far below who he was, who _Jefferson_ was-

(And the Hatter would cackle and sneer from the dark shadows in his mind, screaming in a sing-song voice that he _liked_ it, he _liked_ the evil and the dark and the wrong-)

He would retreat to his bedroom then, and open a drawer in his desk to find the aged whiskey that was delivered with his groceries, and drink it straight from the bottle in an effort to drown out the Hatter's screams and memory of Emma's face when she realized he had her mother tied to a chair, the look _he_ had put there, the look _he_ was responsible for.

It hit him with the force of Snow's kick one night, when he was in front of his fireplace and staring into the flames with the bottle at his side, that it was because he had gotten his Grace back, that the curse was broken and he was able to move freely and openly and that the Hatter would retreat whenever his thoughts were of just _Emma,_ not of what happened or what he had done, just her and the way she felt like summer in his arms and he wondered if she tasted like she smelled, of oranges and warmth and sun, and that was when he knew the Sheriff-Savior had made herself at home in his heart.


	2. Chapter 2

Their second meeting was strained, for both their sake and the sake of the children present at their sides. They met in the street after the magic stormed into town, roiling and soaking into everything it touched and so very much _alive_ and threatening. Magic meant Regina had more power; magic meant more danger to their children, innocents in a battle between forces that had nothing and everything to do with them.

 -o-

 She pulled Henry close, up high and away in the hospital, and prayed that she could protect him from what she knows is coming. Deep-down, her sense of survival and instinct honed by years of life on her own, is screaming that she needs to take her son and leave, take him somewhere safe and _away_ from all of _this-_

 She dropped to her knees and tried to shield him from the storm, from the winds that screamed and wailed and the faces that danced through the fog and left trailing scratches on her skin as it tore through town. 

Henry attributed the tight hold of his mother to the fact he had nearly died, her trembling to the feel of the magic, all twisted and dark and _wrong,_ that she was afraid for her parents and friends lost out in the storm somewhere below. He had no reason to think otherwise; there were no others in her life, not since the death of Graham, and while he liked August-Pinocchio well enough, he didn't like him for his mother, not like that. 

It wasn't until much, much later that Henry could look back on that day and finally understand the small, terrified sob that escaped his mother as they huddled together against the storm.

-o-

He was on his way back to his mansion, back to his own private hell, when he saw the clouds on the horizon. He might have been away in Wonderland when the Curse originally struck, but the electric tingle that filled him from head to toe was understanding enough.

_Magic._

He raced back down to town, the hospital scrubs already long discarded in a trash bin outside Hopper's office. He _knew_ that Grace would be in town, _knew_ that she would be walking along Main Street because it may have been a father's instinct or some form of magic that only parents know, he knew where his daughter would be and where he could find her, and if he could reach her in time then they would be safe, he could use the hat and make everything better and she would be _safe_ and that was all that mattered.

He ran, shouting her name, and there she was in front of him, calling for him and running just as quickly. He fell to his knees just before she reached him, braced himself as his daughter threw herself into his arms after twenty eight years of separation, sobbing and crying and murmuring “Papa” over and over and over again. He was trembling, whispering her name into her hair as he held her close and pressed kisses into her hair. 

They stayed like that as the magic turned the world black. He held his daughter, his Grace, close and prayed, desperate and fearful and oh-so-alert to anything that wasn't magic, wasn't something he could pull her away from in time-

She had no idea of anything, other than the fact she had been reunited with her Papa, and that was all that mattered to her. Unlike Henry, Grace never realized that she was not alone in her father's thoughts that day. She never realized that another woman was on his mind as well; if she had, she would have merely smiled and told him “yes”.

The magic blinked out, a choked whisper of noise and air that soothed across his skin, a forgotten lover's caress that he didn't realize he had _ached_ for, a memory long buried with forget-me-not eyes and daisy yellow hair. It meant it was safe to move, safe to return home and find the hat and just _go,_ leave and never return to a land of Princes and Queens and Enchanted Forests.

Instead, he lifted Grace in his arms-

(had it really been 28 years since he had held her last? It felt so much longer and like no time at all had passed) 

-and began to walk.

-o-

He saw them first.

They walked at the head of a veritable mob, leading the Dwarves, the matched set of Charming and Snow, the red wolf girl and her grandmother, and all of them wore troubled expressions. Hers was the most troubled of all, a sword in her hand and worry in her eyes. She had never seen magic before, he reminded himself as he began to stride their way, never seen what had just swept through town and destroyed everything she ever knew.

It was Snow who saw him first, Snow who shouted in warning and grabbed her husband's arm. It was Charming who moved to stand in front of his long-lost daughter, Charming who was pushed aside as Emma herself stepped forward, sword held high and steady in her hands as she watched his approach.

“Jefferson.” His name is a growl, a primal sound escaping her throat against her will. Her eyes are narrowed as she stares him down, watching, waiting, _calculating_ what his next move is. Her gaze flickers to Grace and then back to him before widening in realization. The sword wavers, dips lower and lower until the point rests against the ground. A concession to his daughter's presence, he realizes, and acts on impulse.

He puts Grace down, nodding at her tremulous smile, before he sweeps into a bow, low and extravagant even without his top hat and frock coat. Grace, not to be outdone, dips into a curtsy worthy of any court gathering. “Your Majesties,” he murmurs, and meets their gazes head on. Snow is fuming, Charming is confused, and Emma-

His breath catches at the relief in her eyes, the strain in the line of her mouth. She is relieved he is alive, relieved he is reunited with his daughter- and still doesn't trust him, even with his daughter beaming from his side as she waves to Henry, who wears an eager smile and waves back like his mother wasn't just pointing a sword at her father's heart.

“Hi Henry!” she calls, and some of the tension in Emma's face melts away.

“Hi Grace.” he calls back, and Emma bestows a look of affection and exasperation upon her son, a look Jefferson realizes immediately. The look of a parent who is still treading water but will slip under the surface soon enough if there isn't a reprieve, isn't time for refuge and time to reassure themselves that their child won't be ripped away.

Then she looks up at him and he grins madly at the look on her face. Regina was good as dead, because that look tells him there is nothing left of the old Emma Swan, sheriff of a small town. Instead he is staring at the Savior, mother-warrior who will burn Heaven and storm Hell to protect her child, the sword and the shield and the hearth all rolled into one. 

He moves towards her slowly, cautiously, because she is almost as feral as dear sweet Red, who looks like she could probably claw her way through his innards right now, and not mind the blood or chip a single polished nail. When he is only a few feet away, he sees her grip tighten on the handle of the sword, unsure of his motives and he can't blame her, will not blame her, and then shocks everyone there as he kneels before her, hands flat on the ground and neck bared.

“Princess,” he rasps, and he can feel the heat of her stare as she realizes what he's doing, what this means. He feels her mother's rage, her father's protective instincts finally kicking in, and her son's delight because _the Mad Hatter has just sworn fealty to the Savior of Storybrooke._

It shouldn't surprise anyone, honestly. He was always one to act on impulse.

-o-

She doesn't know what's going on, or what to make of the fact that her best friend is actually her mother and her other friends either talked to her in her mother's womb or were responsible for her mother and father-friend-thing getting together in the first place, and she really needs to stop thinking about this, because her head is starting to hurt-

At the core of her being is delight that Henry is alive, _her son is alive_ and breathing and _Regina has lost_ , because Emma is never giving him up again, _ever,_ and she will destroy any and everything that tries to take him away.

Her parent-friends walk a pace behind her, furiously whispering and trying to build up the courage to address the fact that they had put her through hell in every world, that she arrested her mother and told off her father and was nearly killed by a psychopathic dominatrix who _adopted her son_ -

Behind them stood a swarm of men who Emma had seen around town but barely spoke to, outside of Leroy the drunk (now Grumpy the Dwarf, although she's convinced the drunk part will show up sooner or later) when he sold candles to help the nuns-

Who are apparently fairies, and one of the old factions of power from the Old World. Responsible for August-Pinocchio turning into wood, responsible for her growing up in foster care, lost and stumbling and miserable in life until she found her way here, to Storybrooke, where cocoa and cinnamon meant home and a treat meant apple pie at the diner and watching Ruby and Archie-

She rubbed her forehead distractedly, aware of the building pressure-pain that meant a migraine was coming. It meant extreme pain-killers and a cool dark room for at least three hours, but that would mean leaving Henry and Snow and Charming alone. She couldn't force herself to abandon them, not when things had finally started working for them all, even if she was still pissed at the entire situation.

And then Snow is shouting and Charming is domineering and _he's_ there, serious and soft and so-very-mad, eyes dark and hard even as his lips tremble just a bit, and his hair is so mussed that she wants to attack it with a comb to bring order back to _something_ in this world.  If magic is real than nothing she knows holds true anymore, other than she loves her son and wants to stab the sonofabitch in front of her right now, right through the heart-

Where a small girl has her head as he carries her. She feels her eyes widen as she jerks her gaze back to his and he nods, nervous and fearful but hiding it behind a wry expression as he puts his daughter down and then performs the most ridiculously over-the-top bow she has ever seen in her life. The girl, Paige- no, _Grace,_ she corrects herself, is behind him and dips into a curtsy that Emma is secretly jealous of. If she tried that, Savior or not, she'd fall flat on her face and never live it down. Henry is smiling and acting like he didn't just die, like he was meeting his classmate on the street by accident and like a curse wasn't just broken, and she can't help but love her amazing child more.

That mad grin appears on his face again, and she's struck dumb because he's smiling at her, delighted by something, and a shiver runs up and down her spine. He starts to move, reminding her of a kicked animal, nerves and fear and strength and pride all warring with each other on his face as he approaches. A smile is still on his face, but it's less dedicated-Hatter and more Jefferson-on-the-side-of-the-road. It's soft and comforting and that's when Emma knows there's a danger here, a danger she recognizes and shoves that knowledge away for later, perhaps over those bottles of wine she mentioned to her mother-friend.

She blinks and he's kneeling and murmuring her name with that bedroom voice of his, dark and sweet and low. Snow gasps and Charming shouts, but all Emma can do is stare at the expanse of neck Jefferson has revealed to her, scarred-red and smooth-pale beneath his velvet cravat. Henry is practically bursting with excitement but all she can think is _Jefferson is kneeling_ , he's _kneeling_ to _me_ -

And she acts on impulse.

-o-

He was honestly expecting the cold bite of steel, or the force of a blow to his head while his guard was down. He was not expecting a gentle hand, tentative as it smoothed through the hair on the back of his head. He was not expecting that hand to slip to his shoulder and then to raise his chin. He was not expecting to meet the gaze of the Savior, so open and honest and raw that he almost shatters, because she is so _beautiful_ in that moment that he can feel the Hatter fall silent, feel cracks begin to mend and the breaks begin to heal.

He takes her hand in his and presses a kiss to the knuckles, to each of her fingers, to the center of her palm. He can hear Charming begin to roar and Snow begin to screech. He hears the wolf girl growl low in her throat, but his attention is for Emma and Emma alone. 

“ _Jefferson_...” her voice is soft, beseeching, and he realizes with a sinking stomach that he has completely and utterly _lost his head_ over Emma Swan, Savior of Storybrooke. It rouses something in him that he can't handle, can't face right now, and so he surges to his feet. She steps forward and he falls back and nearly bumps into Grace, who followed him on silent feet as he knelt on the once-street. She steadies him with a small hand and another smile, this one slightly questioning, and he shakes his head.

 _Later_ , he means, _I'll explain later._

He looks up at Emma, her sword loose in her grip, and he sends her the same look, the same message, and prays she understands. With another bow, this one much shorter and with less flourish, he turns and walks away, Grace's hand tucked away in his elbow as he walks her home.

It was the magic that made him tingle, he told himself later, and not the sight of relief and confusion all mixed together in her too-bright eyes.

-o-

Her sword falls by her side as he walks away. Henry is smug, Red is hissing, Snow is furious, and Charming is almost apoplectic.

None of it matters, though, because she still feels curls beneath her fingertips, feels the warmth of his skin and the meaning hidden in his gaze. Her hands tremble and she tightens her grip on her weapon to force the thoughts of the Hatter away-

He's _not_ the Hatter, though. She thinks this to herself as the party once more begins to move, Snow not-so-subtly steering them in the opposite direction of Jefferson and his daughter. In that moment, he was _Jefferson_ , the loving father, the man who would sear the skies and level entire cities for his daughter. 

Later that evening, tucked away in her bedroom with the lights off and a heavy dose of aspirin in her system, she lays in bed and thinks. 

She thinks of the relief that crashed through her when he appeared, alive and unhurt. She thinks of how his voice changed when he spoke to her, how it roughened and made her think of long nights and silk scarves. She thinks of how she wanted to throw her arms around his neck when he gave her that heart-breaking look, the one that begged for comfort and understanding and warned her away from his madness at the same time. 

She thinks of how she is in so much _trouble_.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Their third meeting was literally a case of hell on earth, as he popped out of the Hat in the middle of a magical firefight and nearly got scorched to death. She tackled him to the ground and earned a ruined jacket and a vicious burn along her spine for her trouble. It was the timely arrival of a feral Red and one very angry crossbow-wielding Widow Lucas that saved their lives- although Snow nearly shot him herself when she learned just _how_ her daughter had gotten injured. Charming didn't even wait to hear an explanation and merely pummeled him until three Dwarves, a flustered town shrink's loyal Dalmatian, and one _very_ perturbed fairy nun managed to pull the Prince away. 

-o-

The first thing she sees when she comes to is a disheveled mop of hair that belongs to her son. She's laying on her stomach, head turned to the side so she doesn't suffocate. The back of her hospital gown is open, her spine bare to the world. She half-remembers Red's teeth and the Widow's shouts, the nauseating combination of scents (charred meat, old velvet, tea), and a dizzying sensation she recognizes as shock. 

She knows she's in the hospital by the smell of antiseptic and latex, the weird band-aid smell that even the return of magic and fairy dust can't completely erase. She had hoped to stay out of here after Henry's almost-death, but experience has taught the best laid plans almost never work. She feels curiously light and free, like she could float away on the slightest breeze. It's almost liberating, and what kind of Savior would she be if she didn't put this new power to work?

She tries to move, the cool tingle on her back instantly changing to a searing pain. She curses and Henry's head shoots up at her voice, eyes bleary with sleep and worry.

“You're awake!” he scrambles to sit up, blinking and staring at her in concern. “The Blue Fairy said it would take you a while to wake up. The sleep spell she put on you was stronger than she expected.”

“How long was I out?” She asks to hide her wince at his mention of the Blue Fairy, or Rheul as she is insisting on being called in this modern-old world. It was still a transition to think of the Mother Superior as the Blue Fairy (although she was secretly grateful she didn't have to see her floating around town in that jellyfish getup Henry's book depicted).

Emma tries to move again and nearly bites through her lip to muffle the scream trying to claw its way out of her throat. She sinks back into the mattress with a hiss, acknowledging that she's going to be bedridden for while. 

(She hates being bedridden, hates being helpless, hates being weak and unable to defend herself, that she can't move without her back feeling like it's splitting in two-)

“About twelve hours.” Henry keeps his voice pitched low, as if he was afraid to disturb someone, and she quirks an eyebrow at him through the pain. 

“What's the matter, kid? Cat got your tongue?” she jokes, attempting to bring a smile to his face.

“His tongue works just fine. I assume he's trying to be quiet for my sake, for which I thank him.” 

Emma stiffens at the sound of his voice. “Jefferson, what-”

His chuckle is dry and hoarse. “Your father was... _upset_ you got hurt. Naturally, Red and her grandmother arrived just in time to see you get injured protecting me, and so-”

“So he beat you up for getting his little girl hurt.” she growls through clenched teeth, forgetting for just a moment her impressionable young son is watching with too-wise eyes. “That sonofa-”

“I'm gonna go find Grace and Mary Margaret.” Henry hops to his feet with a grin, delighted by the grimace on his mother's face. “I promised them I'd tell them when you both woke up, so I'd better go get them.”

“Henry-”

“Be back in a bit!” he nods to Emma and gives Jefferson a grin; he's delighted by Henry's aid and apparent approval and so grins crookedly back. The boy shuts the door behind him quietly, and as the sound of his steps fade away Emma becomes aware of the loaded silence in the room. She still faces away from Jefferson, unable to even turn her head to glare at him (because this entire situation is _his fault_ , his and that _stupid hat_ ), and can feel the weight of his gaze on her bare back.

She bites her lip as the silence stretches out, and prays that Henry will return soon with people to break the calm and the quiet. It's starting to wear on her nerves, and she feels defenseless and bare in a way she hasn't felt in years, since she was first in the system and still so young and afraid. 

Her prayers for the silence to be shattered, but not in the way she hoped.

-o-

His eyes scan over the shiny burn across her back, diagonal and crimson-bright against her pale skin, and he thinks of scars and how they'll match now, all pink and red and pale. The fairies will try their hardest to heal her wound, he knows this. They'll try to remove the scar completely, because this is the Savior and she's not to be marked or scarred or damaged in any way. 

Personally, he thinks the scar adds to her beauty; a testament to the fact she fights and protects, a symbol of her dedication to the people and their safety that not even her parents can match. There is a ferocity hidden deep within the Swan, a fire that burns white-hot and more powerful than all the magic in the land. It's his belief that if Rumpelstiltskin and Regina ever put away their feud (and he knows they _never_ will, thanks to him) and to try to take Emma down, they would break against her power like ships on the rocks, like waves on the sand.

His hands itch to touch that pink-red-pale skin, to soothe the pain he knows she's feeling. A cool hand on the skin of the shoulder, or resting lightly brow is the best comfort he can offer her, but it's a comfort nonetheless. He's spent enough time healing from injuries at the hands of the Cards and their Queen that he knows certain tricks, tricks that can soothe without magic, and he owes Emma. He _owes_ _everything_ to her, has sworn fealty to her and her _alone._

He sits up with a grunt, ignoring the twinges of pain shooting through battered muscles and bruised flesh. His feet touch the floor, cold tile against heated skin, and he begins to make his way to her side, his IV stand as his support. It makes a clumping, dragging noise as he moves unsteadily towards her side, pausing once to steady himself before limping to the chair out of her view.

He's concerned and loyal, not foolish.

-o-

It's the sound of something dragging its way across tile that alerts her things aren't right. She tenses, instincts screaming to throw herself out of bed, injury be damned, and fight her way free. She hates that the fairies turned her head away from the door- she'll have to get help to move so she's no longer blind, no longer vulnerable to any attacks-

(she's not going to mention this to Snow, or Charming, or even Red, because as soon as she does she'll have a guard 24-7 and she is not, _not_ doing that. There are others who need protection more than her, others who can't defend themselves, and she refuses to take away someone who can protect them simply because of irrational fears)

There is a puff of displaced air on her blind side, like someone dropped into a cushioned chair. She can _feel_ a presence there, feel someone _watching_ her as the fine hairs on her arms and neck rise in warning. She struggles to sit up again and nearly screams when someone lightly touches her uninjured shoulder. 

“Easy, easy,” his voice is still hoarse, like he's been without water for days, and she shivers underneath the gentle touch of fingertips on her skin. “It's just me, Emma. I'm not going to hurt you.”

“You did once before,” she bites out, and immediately regrets her words as his hand drops away. He had come after the magic, he had left himself defenseless to kneel at her feet, regret heavy in his eyes. He held her after she had been injured, her hands clasped in his as he knelt above her, trying to shield her from the ifrit's power. Even now, she remembered half-whispered words of comfort, pleading with her to stay awake, to stay with them, _please_ Emma _please_ -

“I'm sorry.” she whispers, and closes her eyes at the waver in her voice. “I didn't-”

“It's alright,” he murmurs, and then his hand is back, blessedly cool against the skin of her back, cool and trailing down her side to avoid her injury. She shivers again, this time in relief, and wets her lips nervously as he continues to speak in that same velvet-and-gravel voice. “You... have every reason. I should be apologizing to you, but I find myself... unable to. You made it work, you see.”

“The hat?”

“The hat.” he confirms, and his voice is less velvet-and-gravel and more whiskey-and-silk. “It took me... someplace safe. Somewhere that magic exists but no one there tries to steal it. I was safe there, and waited.”

He falls silent but not still; his fingers continue to trace patterns on Emma's back and she feels herself growing drowsy from the gentle touches. It's something she's never experienced before, this soft intimacy, and she finds herself greedily wishing it would last just a bit more, just a little longer. She doesn't even press him for more answers, content to lay in her cot and his presence and all the silence that comes along with it.

When he speaks next, his breath is hot on her ear. She jolts back to wakefulness at the sound of her name, a soft and _warm_ whisper that sends more shivers from head to toe.

“Yes?” she croaks, and flushes at the sound of her voice. She clears her throat and tries again. “Yes, Jefferson?”

“Do you know what it means to kneel before someone?” his voice has gone back to that bedroom whisper, the one that makes her think of sweaty skin and tangled sheets. “To fully bare yourself like that to a being of power? And then to be accepted by that being, to be caressed and acknowledged by their light?”

“ _...no.”_ her voice has gone thready and wavers on that one word, a mere shadow of her usual brash attitude and confidence. She feels more exposed now than she ever has before in her life, and all he's done is touch her back and whisper in her ear. “What does it mean?”

“It means...” he leans closer, so close that she can feel the heat radiating off of him-

(how can he feel so hot when his hands are so cold?) 

and smell his cologne-

(something woody and dark and utterly masculine)

and something in her _breaks,_ breaks and falls apart and she can feel it in her chest. She doesn't speak of it but her breathing gives her away.

-o-

He grins as her breath quickens. He can feel her pulse thunder under his fingertips, lazily circling near the base of her spine. She smells like magic and cinnamon and rain underneath the stink of the hospital. It's a scent he finds he's getting quickly addicted to, all spice and danger. He licks his lips, grateful she can't see his reactions, before continuing with his newest game.

She's clever, his beautiful Swan, but she's not _his_ just yet. He's reminded of stories of the Valkyries, the golden-haired warrior-women, the choosers of the slain. Of how they would dress themselves in feathered dresses and become swans, and of the misfortune that befell those who hurt them, who lied and tricked and stole from Odin's maidens. You did not trick the Valkyrja, you wooed them. You loved them and worshipped them and if you were lucky they would love you in return. He remembers the story of Kara, the Valkyrie who loved a mortal man, who flew above his head in battle and sang to distract and destroy his enemies. Kara, who died for her lover's foolishness. 

The irony of the situation does not escape him.

He looks at the Savior, lying face down in a hospital bed, golden hair tangled and knotted, with her injury displayed- the injury she received in battle, the injury she received to protect _him._ Suddenly, the idea of her skin scarring, that pale skin turning pink-red, sickens him. The idea that he nearly lost her because of his own foolishness makes him tremble, makes him ill. He has to lick his lips again, because his mouth and throat have gone suddenly dry and she needs to hear him, needs to know what he does.

“It means... that the person who kneels has sworn fealty. It means their life is no longer theirs to command, that they are now dedicated to whatever their master wishes.” 

“What?” her voice is thin and disbelieving, and her hands fist into the bedding. “Jefferson, that's-”

“What I wanted to do. What I needed to do.” he cuts her off, his hand falling away as he forces himself to stand. He grips the IV stand again, and forces his way to her other side. To where she can see his eyes and his face and know the truth of his words.

He swore loyalty to her then, but he swears, here and now, that he will stand by this Valkyrie's side for as long as she'll have him. She doesn't know this, doesn't realize what he means as he kneels in front of her, his grip on the edge of her bed so tight his knuckles match the white bedding, but he does.

He swears himself to her again, again and again, murmurs words he prays she can only half-hear. He doesn't stop until her hand slides into his hair once more. Even then he presses kisses to the inside of her wrist and palm, because she's looking at him with that same beautiful joy, that quiet sadness and compassion and _love_ that he can only murmur her name into the lines of her hand. He doesn't stop, even as Henry returns with Grace and Snow, with Charming and Red and _Cinderella_ of all people, and the shouting begins again.

It doesn't matter, though, because she's still looking at him with that _smile,_ and he feels like his heart is so full, he's going to burst, and he can't bring himself to care.

He _is_ the Mad Hatter, after all.

-o-

It was later confirmed through the town grapevine that the Blue Fairy had banned Charming from visiting Emma in the hospital, having placed Jefferson in the same room and _refusing_ to move the hatter to another ward. Belle later whispered to Rumple that the Fairy was a closet romantic; Rumple had snorted and told her she was no longer allowed to drink his aged sherry after 8 o' clock. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jefferson gets the chance to play the hero.

Their fourth meeting was so far from normal (compared to their previous ones, that is) that neither party could quite believe it. He had been shopping for groceries with Grace and ran straight into another cart as they turned the corner, and the lovely Sheriff had been quite literally knocked off her feet.

 -o-

 It's not often they go to collect groceries themselves, but with the increasing threat of Regina and Gold's war looming over their heads, Jefferson no longer trusts anyone to deliver their food. It's because of this mistrust they found themselves in the store in the middle of a Saturday afternoon, searching high and low for a bag of rice flour for a new recipe for Grace to attempt. She's become fascinated with traditional Japanese cooking (he has _no_ _idea_ where that particular impulse came from), and now has several recipes printed and gathered into a rather lopsided cookbook. The flour is for something called “mochi”, and while Jefferson honestly thinks it sounds disgusting, Grace is entranced by the confection and so rice flour is added to their list.

 “Are you sure they'll have it here, Papa?” Grace's voice is high with worry as she trails behind him, fingers twisting nervously in the fabric of her skirt. He gives her a smile to calm her fears, but the watery smile he gets in return tells him that it didn't work. “We don't have to get it, it's not really all that important. We can just go home...”

 Jefferson straightens from his perusal of the lower shelves to study his daughter. She's biting her lower lip, her fingers almost wearing a hole through her skirt, and her eyes are worried. He told her the first night the curse broke, what had happened to him and he had been trapped in Wonderland. She held up remarkably for the rest of the evening, but when she slept she came undone. Her screams sent him running to her side, had him murmuring that she was safe, he was safe, that the Queen could not harm them anymore.

 He stayed with her through the night, and in the morning took her to see the good Dr. Hopper, who congenially spoke to his daughter while Jefferson watched from the corner. Grace spoke of her fears of losing her father, losing him to the Queen's machinations or because of the war brewing over their heads. It was difficult for her to even leave the house, she admitted to the Conscience, but she was terrified that one day her Papa would leave and wouldn't come back to her.

 Jefferson broke in then, taking his daughter's hands and telling her over and over that he wasn't leaving her again, and if he had to leave he would take her with him. That no matter what he would always get back to her, just like he did after the curse broke, and that he would have nothing to do with Regina ever again.

 And thusly, he found himself squatting in a grocery store, searching for rice flour for his little girl; rice flour that she no longer desired because she was frightened of staying in the store any longer. Frightened of the Queen and frightened of Rumpelstiltskin, frightened her father would be taken away.

He shakes his head at the mess he's made, subjecting his daughter to the world's problems when all he wanted was to keep her safe. He smiles and holds out his hand, waiting for her to take it. “We'll ask the manager if they have it, and if they don't we'll put in a request,” he promises her. She nods, and her much-abused skirt drops from her fingers as she takes his hand to follow him down the aisle. He doesn't look away from her, still smiling and reassuring-

Until the clanging of metal and the sensation of the handle of the cart driving into his stomach.

Wheezing, he straightens upright to lecture the clueless shopper-

 Only to see a grinning Henry standing at the side of the cart, and hear muffled cursing floating up from the floor. Cautiously, Jefferson moves around the tangle of carts and children to peer over the edge at the spot of color on the grocery floor-

 -o-

 Emma had _enough._

 She couldn't stand being in the hospital for one more second, couldn't stand being so inactive when she's needed out in the real world-

 (or the fairy tale world, she's not sure what qualifies as which anymore and she soundly blames Regina for that)

 So carefully, she disengaged her IV (which fucking _hurt),_ grabbed a blanket to wrap around her lower half (because god forbid the fairy-nuns give her _pants),_ and hustled it down the back streets until she got to her apartment. It didn't occur to her until she arrived that she didn't have her keys, as they were in the pocket of her now ruined jacket, and as soon as Mary-Margaret-Snow or David-James-Charming found her she'd be back in that stupid cot but this time with posted guards-

 She nearly cried in relief when she heard the sound of cartoons. Cartoons meant Henry, and Henry meant help. She knocked on the door until her son answered, and as soon as he had the door cracked open enough she forced her way in. Shouting in concern, he followed her back to her room, yelling about _healing magic_ and _spells_ while she looked for a pair of god-forsaken jeans and found some on the floor, and a pair of clean underwear in a pile on the bed.

It wasn't until she dropped the blanket that Henry stopped yelling to turn around and stare at the wall (she felt a little guilty, scarring the kid with the sight of her bare ass, but she wanted to put on some real actual _clothes)._ It only took a few seconds for him to get his second wind though, and he started yelling at her again without actually looking at her, which she found endearing and annoying all in one (because it reminded her of Charming, for some reason).

It was then she hit upon the exercise of grocery shopping. She was fine, she kept repeating to Henry, and the people needed to see that she was up and about, especially after a stint with the fairies, and that she needed his support to help convince them she was fine.

“After all, if I can't handle a grocery trip, I can't handle swinging a sword or firing a gun,” she joked as she grabbed her spare keys. Snow had apparently taken her other set, thinking it would prevent her from leaving the hospital- or so Henry claimed. Emma suspects her new family is keeping secrets from her, but didn't press the matter as she ushered her son out the door.

It isn't until Emma gets in her Beetle that she realizes the magnitude of the task before them. Her usual jackets are too heavy to wear over the burn; even bandaged, it's still tender to the touch. She debates wearing just her tank top and jeans, but Henry's watching her so closely that she knows the jacket has to come. It feels heavy as lead while she pulls it on; it burns like acid when it finally settles over her. She's gritting her teeth by the time they make it to her car, and then she's forcing herself behind the wheel. She can feel her son's eyes on her as she drives them the few blocks to the grocery store, and that's the only reason she manages to not scream in agony at every jolt in the uneven road.

She thanks every god she can think of when they finally arrive and she can get out of the car. It takes all her control to not bolt out of the seat like a frightened rabbit, but she can't prevent the sigh of relief from escaping as she climbs out and stretches as gently as she can. Henry pretends not to watch her out of the corner of his eye, but she isn't fooled by the docile behavior.

He's her kid, after all.

She grabs a cart at the entrance and makes her way inside, Henry following behind and listing off all the groceries they needed. How he managed to memorize every item the apartment was missing, she doesn't know, but nods anyway. She only stops once to tell him that no, they don't need cat food, she doesn't care if the tabby across the way _was_ seen trotting around in boots, it's not coming into the house and that's final, and _no,_ she wasn't going to ask Snow because if she said yes and the cat ate one of her bluebirds, there would be Hell to pay and Emma was not getting involved in _that._

The longer she walks and stands upright, the less her back hurts until eventually, she can forgot the fact that she's been injured. Henry points out the various items they need as they pass by, and after about fifteen minutes of shopping (this is the quickest she's ever been in a grocery store, she reflects, and it only takes her ten-year-old son's maturity to rub in the lack of hers) to gather almost all the items they need. Since they managed to collect everything in such a short amount of time, Emma finds herself lingering as they walk down the aisles. She's never been the domestic type before, always preferring to buy her food or just microwave it, but she's finding a sort of peace in grocery shopping with her son.

She pauses at the end of an aisle to study the various types of broth available, as Charming has been complaining about the lack of decent food in the apartment, and she's been debating taking cooking lessons from Ruby. Soups and stews sound simple enough, and they've gathered enough vegetables and meat that she could probably attempt one and not screw it up too badly. Eventually she settles on chicken, beef and lamb; it's not until she bends down to gather the cans that she remembers her injury. Her jacket tightens over the burn and she bites down on her lip to stifle the cry. Henry was still watching her and she doesn't trust him not to whip out a phone and dial Snow immediately, so she kneels down and picks up a can.

 Henry, can you put these in the cart for me?” she asks as nonchalantly as she can. The weight of the can leaves her hand and she reaches for another. It's a good system, even if her jacket is pressing down repeatedly on her back. When she stands up, she nearly faints from the sudden pain, and grips onto the handle as tightly as possible.

 “What's next?” she asks, and her tongue feels thick and heavy in her mouth.

“Ice cream, cocoa and cinnamon.” her son announces brightly, and points to the next aisle over. Emma closes her eyes and exhales, wishing that this trip was over and done already, and starts to push the cart around the corner-

A clang of metal and she's caught unawares. The handlebar drives into her stomach and steals the breath from her lungs before she's on the floor, wheezing and gasping and glaring at the idiot who swung around corners without checking-

 -o-

 He curses when he realizes that it's Emma's cart, and that the still-recovering Savior is now glaring at him while Henry snickers behind his hand. Flustered, he immediately begins to apologize and offer to help her up, babbling and oblivious to the amusement of their children. She shrugs off his help with another glare and stands on her own, lips in a tight line as she straightens up. He sees her wince as her jacket presses down on her back and he remembers she should still be in the hospital, because that was a magical burn and those _never_ heal without constant vigilance, and why was she out and _here_ because he was going to visit her _tonight-_

She staggers then, just slightly, but he's still there and catches her around the waist. He's careful of her injury and meets her furious gaze with a determined expression, blue-grey eyes stormy and dark. “You shouldn't be out right now,” he murmurs, concern lacing his voice. “You're not strong enough if a _certain_ _someone_ should attack, and we all need you, Emma. Some more than others.”

She opens her mouth to say something (probably sarcastic and cutting, characteristic of the old Emma), but something stops her. Lips slightly parted, she studies his face, her eyes searching until she gives an almost imperceptible nod (he sees it, though, because he's spent so long studying things that what was imperceptible to most was clear as day to him, a side effect of the Hatter lurking in his brain) and pushes gently on his arms.

“Thank you,” she mutters, and the tips of her ears flush pink as she slowly steps away. “Next time, though, do me a favor and check before you turn the corner. I might not survive it next time.”

“Oh, Princess,” he flashes her a smile that makes her knees buckle, just a bit, “next time I make you... _fall,_ there won't be carts- or spectators.”

She stares at him in shock, completely undone by the innuendo and he's so delighted by the look on her face that he misses the incoming danger.

 -o-

“Henry! _Emma!”_

The voice is off, wooden and hollow and reverberating and muffled all in one, like someone shouting from inside a closet, but familiar. _Very_ familiar.

“August?” Emma spun around, eyes searching for a sign of the man she knew-

But it's not August who is making his way down the aisle to them, it's Pinocchio, all grown up and wooden and _moving_ towards them at a rather alarming speed and an odd 'thunking' noise that makes her think of wooden poles rather than feet.

He comes closer, eyes painted bright blue in his wooden face, and she fights the urge to pull away in disgust. This is not how she remembers August, with his eyes full of laughter and secrets and pain. _This_ is not the man she watched petrify in a hotel bed- _this_ is something new and foreign and strange, and for a moment she wishes she had her sword at her side.

“Aug- Pinocchio,” she greets the puppet-man cautiously. “I thought you died!”

“Nope, still here, thanks to you.” he grins, and the effect is horrible. She fights the urge to retch and sees Grace bury her face in Henry's back- when had he moved in front of her?- and turns her attention back to the puppet-man in time to see him descend upon her in a hug.

She thinks that it's going to be light and easy, something that she could break free from because surely he's aware of how hard it's going to be (pun not intended) to hug a piece of living wood. She thinks that she'll be alright to greet an old... friend, if she could call him that, and that she can handle one little hug. Beside her, she sees Jefferson tense before she's enveloped in wooden arms and it's all she can do not to scream.

-o-

When the puppet-man comes into view, Jefferson sees Grace pull away from the corner of his eye. He worries for his daughter, as she's not seen the horrors of the world yet, but something keeps him by Emma's side, ready and waiting and aware. He barely listens to him talk, instead watching Emma's son and his daughter as best he can. He sees Henry step in front of Grace as Pinocchio passes, as if to protect her from a threat, and for a wild moment he pictures himself doing the same for Emma, protecting her against this gross perversity of magic and nature-

(but she would probably push him out of the way and start waving a weapon and shouting, he thinks, because that's just what the Valkyrja would do, and his Swan is anything but a simpering, cowering female)

And then the puppet-man smiles and Grace nearly cries, and Jefferson has to bite back the growl that's threatening to escape. Grace is terrified, Henry is wary when by all means he should be ecstatic at the return of the writer, and Emma-

Emma is wrapped in his embrace before he can blink. She's tense and her face is white, and he realizes that the puppet-man doesn't know his own strength and is _crushing_ her, crushing her and aggravating her wound and all he can see is red red _red_ -

“ _Get away from my mom!_ ”

A can of peas comes hurtling out of nowhere and hits August-Pinocchio in his back; startled, he turns to face his assailant, Emma still encased in his arms. His eyes widen comically at the sight of Henry, one hand raised over his head with another can clutched in his fist. Behind him, Grace reaches into the cart to hand him another and Jefferson has never been so _proud_ of his little girl before.

 “Henry, what-”

“Get _away_ from her!” he yells again, and throws the can- this time chicken and stars- at his head. “ _Let her go!_ ”

“Henry-”

Jefferson moves then, sliding in between the children and their supply of ammunition, eyes calculating and cold. “Let her go.”

“Who are you?” The puppet tightens his grip and Emma spasms in his arms from pain; Jefferson realizes he can't feel her tremors, doesn't know what he's doing to their Savior. “What do you want with her?”

Jefferson can see her face, see the pain and all he wants to do is rip her away and burn the ugly puppet-man- _thing_ to dust, burn it until she's safe and warm and secure and back in her hospital bed, even if he has to tie her there until she's all healed. Inside his head, Hatter is screaming and howling at the site of _their_ Valkyrie, _their_ Swan, held by another's arms, and he almost takes a step forward to pry at wooden limbs. Instead, he forces his gaze away from her and stares into the painted wood with a grimace of distaste.

“Did termites rot your brain?” he demands, voice cracking from the strain of holding the Hatter back. The puppet-man stiffens further and Jefferson bites back a curse. “You're _hurting_ her. She just got out of the hospital and you're _crushing_ her. Let. Her. _Go.”_

Hatter slips his leash on the last word and just a bit of his insanity comes with. He can see the surprise on the wooden features, followed by suspicion and a wary knowledge of who he is, but none of that matters because Emma is still not free and in his arms and it shows on his face. Behind him, he hears Henry speaking quickly and urgently to someone but he doesn't turn, doesn't look away, not even when two small bodies press against him on either side and his arms slide around their shoulders. He almost smiles at the picture they must make, the Mad Hatter with a furious Prince and a terrified but stubborn girl standing against the Puppet-monster that's stolen away their Princess-

The puppet doesn't believe him, doesn't let her go, and looks at Emma's face as if to see that she'll defend him from the accusations. It's then that he realizes what he's done, realizes she hasn't spoken and can't, because her mind is locked down under the pain of his embrace and she can't come back as long as he's holding her. August-Pinocchio releases her with an achingly hollow cry, stumbling back as if to erase what he's done, and Emma tumbles to the ground. Jefferson is by her side almost instantly, Henry and Grace only millimeters behind.

“Emma!” Henry cries out and reaches for her hand, gripping it as tightly as he can. “Emma, are you okay?”

“Grace.” Jefferson uses a tone of voice she has only heard once before, a tone that brooks no argument. “Get Henry back and call Snow White. She's needed here.” Wordlessly she takes Henry's hand and pulls him away to give Jefferson more room with the injured Sheriff, unable to say or do anything to comfort her friend, other than grip his hand as tightly as she can as he calls his grandmother for help.

“Please be okay!” he begs, and Jefferson flinches as the desperation in the boy's voice. “Please, mom, please!”

“Henry, it will be alright. She'll be alright,” Jefferson gives him a half-hearted smile before turning his attention back to the trembling woman in front of him. He doesn't say what he's thinking, doesn't give voice to his fears- magic always comes with a price, and the price to heal an already unstable magic being (because _she_ was magic, whether she believes it or not) was so, so high.

Instead, he cups her face in his hands and whispers to her instead, attempts to bring her back to them with his voice alone. “Emma, Emma,” he cajoles, trying to catch her gaze. Her eyes, wide and glassy from pain, can't seem to focus and her skin is clammy and pale. “Emma, _please,_ look at me.”

She can't respond, won't respond-

(the Hatter screams this is unacceptable, this is not how she should be. She is _Valkyrja,_ she is battle-born, _this is not how she's supposed to die-_ )

-and he hates himself more in that minute than he ever has before, because he knows what he has to do. He forces her to her feet, drapes one of her arms around his shoulders and slips his arm around her waist. He marches her to the doors, past the sobbing wood-man and the startled shoppers-turned-onlookers and out into the blustery spring air. The children follow immediately, sneakers scuffing as they leap over dented cans and split bags of rice. 

Reul Ghorm's magic is fading quickly, the malevolence of the ifrit's magic over-taking the healing spell with ease. He can feel the heat spreading from her back, feel her tremors lessen until she's almost completely limp and senseless in his arms. By the time they've reached the doors, she's barely moving, but he keeps her going, whispering encouragement into her ear as he steers her towards the parked cars.

He's managed to make her sit on the hood of a station wagon when Snow arrives, eyes wide and hands twisted into fists when she sees the Hatter holding her daughter. As soon as she opens her mouth to shriek at him, Jefferson cuts her off as effectively as he can.

“She's burning up. That idiot puppet crushed her back and aggravated the wound. The fairy's magic was used up to combat the worst of it, but the ifrit's magic is burning through the rest. Help me get her jacket off.”

-o-

Snow does not trust the Hatter, even after he swears fealty to her daughter. When Henry calls to tell her he's with Emma and the Hatter and that her daughter needs help, Snow wastes no time. She's fairly certain she's never run that fast in her life, but Emma is in danger and hell help any fool who gets in her way. She races down the street, a crème-and-pastel colored blur that doesn't even stop to grab Leroy or Ruby or even Charming because _Emma needs her_.

Arriving to see the Hatter hold Emma close as he tried to remove her jacket was jarring, to say the least. When she hears why, however, she springs into action, furious at Gepeto and Pinocchio because this is that goddamn wardrobe _all over again_ , and now her daughter is hurt and being manhandled by a madman (although she does admit that he's probably the _least_ crazy out of all the crazy people in town) because of that stupid puppet.

“Charming's on his way. Tell me what happened.” she commands as she steps next to her daughter. He rolls his eyes at her voice but mercifully acts with civility and answers her.

“My daughter and I were shopping when I turned the corner and ran into her cart. She was knocked down by the force of it-” he stops explaining to whisper soothingly in Emma's ear as she trembles from his attempts to remove her jacket. “Shh, _valkryja_ , shhh. It's alright, you'll be alright.”

Snow shakes her head in exasperation. “Hold her up, I'll get her jacket. What happened after you knocked her down?”

The Hatter snorts in derision, but does as she commands. “She refused my help up and nearly fainted from the exertion, of course. Stubbornness seems to run in your family tree.”

“You-”

“It was right about then the walking lumber pile showed up,” he continues to speak, ignoring Snow's fuming as she gently frees her daughter from the confines of the jacket. “He was happy to see her, but seemed to forget he wasn't human anymore. My attention was on my daughter, and when I looked back to Emma that thing had caught her in a.... hug, for lack of a better term, and didn't realize he was hurting her.” The Hatter shrugs and cups Emma's face in his hand. “She's going into shock; she needs to get back to the hospital. What was she even doing out?”

His question is innocently directly and, as far as Snow can tell, completely devoid of insult; it still makes her grit her teeth in annoyance. “She snuck out.” Snow spits out the words like rotten meat. “She was supposed to be in for another few days at least, but she was more resourceful than we gave her credit and now she's hurt again.”

The Hatter doesn't say anything, merely nods as Snow begins to study the burn on her daughter's back. He merely holds Emma's hands as she leans against him, exhausted and barely awake. Henry and Paige- Grace, she mentally corrects herself over the name of her former student- are whispering behind them, and try as she might she can't quite hear what they're saying. Silence reigns until the arrival of the calvary- Charming in his truck with the Reul Ghorm and Ruby the wolf-girl crammed together in the passenger seat, and Leroy the grumpy Dwarf driving an ambulance full of fairy-nuns behind him.

Snow watches as he whispers softly to Emma, tucking a bit of hair behind her daughter's ear before she's taken away by the fairies. She sends Charming a look and a nod, telling him without words to stay while she goes with their daughter. He sends her a nod and a look back, accepting what she wants him to do- because someone here is responsible for hurting their little girl, and there's no one better for finding them and making them pay.

-o-

Jefferson is not surprised when Charming approaches him with one hand on his hilt. He is surprised, however, when Henry rushes forward and throws himself on the Prince, babbling a mile a minute about how it wasn't Jefferson, it was August, please don't hurt him anymore, please-

“Is that true?” Charming raises a brow in his direction, and Jefferson can only nod, his attention still focused on the ambulance screeching away with his Valkyrie in the back.

“Mainly true. I _did_ knock her down, but that was a purely innocent accident and I apologized to her when it happened. She refused my help up, though, so it's not like she's completely innocent in her injuries either.”

Charming doesn't reply, instead he grips Jefferson's bicep in an iron hold and raises his voice to be heard by the wolf-girl. “Ruby, watch over the kids. He's coming with me.”

“Why am I coming with you, exactly? The last time we spoke wasn't so friendly.” Jefferson reminds him, hoping the Prince will release his arm. The grin Charming sends him in reply, however, is both chilling and heartening.

“We're going hunting, of course.”

-o-

Gold reflects later that allowing Belle to make friends with the wolf-girl and the Charmings was a mix of blessing and curse, as she now has a penchant for town gossip that never plagued her before. It's through this gossip, however, that he hears of how the Prince and the Hatter dragged a very subdued and shackled Pinocchio through town, and how Geppeto had received such a severe scolding by the Blue Fairy that his ears almost blistered- which backfired on her in turn, as the Royal Family had several choice words for Reul Ghorm that would have made her wings crisp, had she still had them.

He's almost tempted to offer them one favor, free of charge, for seeing the blue idiot put in her place. The idea of seeing her humbled sits _very_ nicely with him.


	5. Chapter 5

Their fifth meeting is _silver,_ soft and sweet and ethereal under the moonlight and stars, hidden away under the cover of darkness with no chance of relief. It is a meeting of both pleasure and pain, but neither of them would have it any other way, and both are left content with where they now stand with the other. It is the meeting that changes everything and nothing, all in one, and makes her wonder- and then see- what the madman sees in a woman with broken dreams.

-o-

She's tired of the lectures and the responsibilities heaped upon her head; responsibilities that Snow knows she won't shirk, responsibilities that will keep her shackled to a desk and safe from magic and battles until she's fully healed.

Not that she plans on telling Snow that she's already fully healed (thanks to a combination of Mr. Gold's gratitude for humiliating the “Mother Annoyance” and more fairy-nun magic). She knows her mother would ship her off someplace else, somewhere “safe” and away and _not Storybrooke_ if possible, because she's the only one who can _leave_ but won't do it because they are family.

After the last time she and Reul Ghorm spoke, the fairy-nun definitely owed her one; she had to apologize for Pinocchio's selfishness twice over. It was a favor Emma planned on calling in soon- tonight, if possible, because she was tired of walls and tired of paperwork and tired of responsibilities. Leroy, her mother's most dedicated friend and guard, had been assigned to watch over her, but what's dedication when the woman you love just happens to stop by with a freshly made dinner for two?

She nodded to Astra-Nova as she silently opened her window and straddled the edge. After her last escape, Snow had requested that she be placed somewhere more... challenging to escape from. Rheul, chastised and subdued from the last tongue-lashing, had nodded and placed Emma on the highest floor of the hospital- a fifteen foot drop with no low roofs below or drain pipes within reach.

At least, it would have been challenging if not for the supply truck parked directly beneath her window; a supply truck that just so happened to be full of mattresses and feather pillows.

How they managed to find that much bedding in such a little town, she had no clue, but right now Emma wasn't questioning her luck.

-o-

He has taken to wandering through the streets at night, a dangerous habit but one he finds he can't shake ever since his _valkyrja_ was taken away into the hospital and he was barred from her side. He can sneak in easily enough, this is true, but he knows that they are watching her so closely now that he _can't shouldn't won't_ risk it-

(Hatter laughs inside his head, mocking and cutting as he screams that _he loves her, he loves her and she doesn't love him_ -)

So instead he patrols the streets at night, silent and shadowed and trying his best to stay sane without blue eyes and sunshine curls and those gentle killing hands-

Whose owner is currently stumbling down the street, wrapped in a hospital blanket and shivering as she tries to avoid the street lights and the people moving behind curtains as if she was desperate and afraid to be seen.

So naturally, he followed her, his _val_ kyrja, his Swan. She was not a creature made for the shadows, she was made for the light and the sun, made for golden days, for rich gowns under armor with sword callouses on her hands. She was made for battle and glory, and to see her so far from such made his heart and head _ache_ in a way he hasn't felt in years.

She slipped into the back alleys of the town and away from any searching eyes. He slid into the dark behind her, footfalls nearly silent as he tracked her. Her hair, bound and braided around her head

(like a circlet, like a crown)

glowed where the moonlight touched it, and his hands _itched_ to take down those golden strands, to let them be as uninhibited and free as the one they adorned-

(Hatter cackled and screeched, beat against the inside of his skull with glee as he chanted _ours ours ours_ over and over again, _our valkyrja, ours_ )

“Y'know, you're not nearly as quiet as you think.” her voice echoes out of the dark and he laughs, low and delighted.

“Apologies, princess,” he says smoothly, and is rewarded with the sight of her standing, fierce and proud in the moonlight, even shrouded in blankets and cold.

“Why are you here, Jefferson?” she asks, “Why are you following me? Why do you even care?”, and her voice is tired, slow. He inhales sharply at her tone, and moves to stand before her, the scents of cold and _Emma_ warring in his nose.

“I am here, _valkyrja,_ because you are here. I will always be where you are, even if you don't want it, because I swore myself to you. I swore myself to you, and to all that you encompass, and even if you send me away I won't go, because I am yours and you are mine and I-”

“I'm yours?” she is spitting fire and fury, and he is proud and terrified because this, _this_ might just be what causes her to kill him, the claiming of her as his, and a small dark part of him is _thrilled_ to get such a reaction from her.

“Yes, _val_ kyrja, you are mine. My Swan, my warrior, my princess and my queen, and all that you are, is mine. Mine to worship, mine to serve, mine to lo-”

Her hand covers his mouth, and he closes his eyes at the feel of her skin against his. He doesn't speak, just waits, as she trembles and stares and he is _so utterly lost to her_.

-o-

She's furious, at first, that she's already been caught, this close to the hospital, but when her shadow doesn't stop her, just follows, she begins to rethink her assessment. It's not one of Snow's helpers, not one of her loyal followers, but they're not completely _friendly,_ either. She can feel their eyes on her, hear their footsteps

(heavy, widely spaced, slight limp- probably a male, but not Gold, never Gold)

as they follow her through the night. She finds herself getting angrier and angrier, that this quiet shadow even dares to do this, so she lets her anger rule her, lets it make her call out and _challenge_ them, challenge her stalker with no weapons or magic or even a pair of real _pants_

(again with the loss of real pants. She's never going to let Snow live this down, whenever she feels confident enough to deal with her mother's overprotective and outright _neurotic_ tendencies)

and when they laugh she knows. She knowss his voice, knows his laughter and his whispers. They haunt her memories, make up the bulk of her dreams, and she _burns._ She _burns_ and _aches_ to make it stop, make it stop being a dream and make it real-

(until he opens his mouth and starts spouting off some caveman bullshit, which turns the burn to something else, something dark and ugly and oh-so-draining)

and she fires back when she's backed into a corner, forced to confront what she wants to confront but not on her own terms, in her own time.

She doesn't expect his response, doesn't expect the outpouring of sheer _want_ and _need_ that comes from his mouth, and she can't handle it. She claps her hand over his mouth to silence him, to give her time to process, and he closes his eyes like her touch is a benediction, like it's forgiveness and joy and lo-

(she refuses to say the word, to even _think_ it, but it bounces around her ribcage like a trapped bird, beats against her bones and her heart until everything is aching and she can't hold it back anymore)

-o-

She tastes like she smells, spice and magic and something undeniably _Emma,_ and when he thought he was lost before is nothing compared to him now.

He groans and lets her control the kiss, hungry and desperate and burning under her attention. She is fire, she is fury, she is magic and hope and sunlight and warmth and he is utterly _hers._

When she moves to pull back, to pull away, he whimpers. He whimpers and she growls and then she is there, she is there and gripping his face and his neck and her hands are moving and his are too.

They break for air but she doesn't stop, doesn't move away, instead moving her lips over his cheeks and chin and down the column of his neck. Her lips touch and lightly _bite_ down on the scarred skin, and his knees buckle and he grips her arms and she laughs, low and throaty in a way that makes him want to throw caution to the wind.

“Emma,” he pants, “My Emma, my _valkyrja,_ my queen-”

“Stop talking,” she growls again, and does something with her lips and a spot behind his earlobe that _does_ send him to his knees, eyes glazed over and then he has a lap full of woman, warm and bright and so _enthusiastic_ in finding all the ways that make him moan.

(Hatter is there, silent but pressing against his brain, telling him to stop her, to take her somewhere safe, somewhere secure, where they can be alone and they can learn how she tastes all over)

-o-

She likes the words and noises she wrings from him, likes the feel of him beneath her, of his arms around her. When those words and noises turn deep and wicked, she can see the Hatter shining at her through his eyes, but surprisingly, she's not worried.

She lets him take her hand, lets him take her blanket only to wrap her in his coat and scarf. They smell like him, dark and woodsy, and her eyes fall to half-mast as she takes in his smell and his appearance. He appears smaller, vulnerable without them, and she suddenly wishes for them to be somewhere else, somewhere where she can strip him of the rest of his clothes and armor, where she can trace the marks on his skin with her fingers, with her tongue and her teeth.

He makes a pained noise and she realizes she spoke her thoughts out loud, because he's flat-out running now, dragging her behind him into the woods. He leaves the blanket crumpled in the alleyway, but she doesn't mind. His coat and scarf are warmer, full of his heat and his smell, and she yanks him back to her, back to her lips and her touch. His answering growl is dark and low, his touch more sure and hungry, and this time she's the one whimpering and moaning before he draws back, mouth shining and full as he grins in the moonlight, and she admits that she's utterly lost for him.

They make their way through the woods, stumbling, fumbling, hands and mouths desperate under the silver moon, until they're falling through the doors of his house. She laughs, breathless and light. He laughs, manic and low, and manages to close the door and close them in the darkness before he's tugging, pulling her farther in until they're in the parlor and she sees the piano before he sinks to his knees in front of her.

(She screams for him, her voice delightfully hoarse and husky, and both Hatter and Jefferson scream with her)

He opens the buttons of his coat, but doesn't remove it at first. “No fire,” he murmurs against her skin, and she nods as she fumbles open his vest.

“Don't want to catch cold,” she sighs in agreement, running her hands over his chest.

(He didn't plan to let her keep the scarf, but then she ripped it from her throat and used it to pull him into a kiss, and he dazedly decided she could keep it and use it however she wanted)

(She did, hours later, when she bound his wrists behind his back and gripped the knots so tight)

-o-

He got his wish when the sky was turning pink and red and fiery gold. She lay next to him, warm and bright and sated, golden where the light touched her skin. He lightly traced her braid with gentle fingers, mouth working whispers against her collarbones. She hummed in agreement, her own fingers working through his curls, and he nearly wept when her hair finally tumbled free. He wrapped himself around her, still whispering promises and words and oaths into her skin, worshiping her in all the ways that he knew

(so utterly _lost_ to her)

that he nearly missed her voice, light and thready as she fought sleep, whispering all her promises and oaths back.

He let himself fall asleep to the sound of his _valkyrja_ , his Emma, his queen, promising all sorts of wonderfully terrifying things, things he never dreamed of having. He followed her into dreams, where they came together and fell into pools of silvery moonlight, the moss and leaves beneath them, the trees sheltering above them.

He fell to the sounds of her words, to her promises and oaths, and knew that when he woke, it would be to something so new and shining and terrifyingly _bright_

(Hatter was silent, silent but so hopeful)

that it could only be _her_.

-o-

He woke to the sight of her, asleep and wrapped in his arms, his scarf tangled in her hands, and he felt that bright shining thing, deep in his chest.

“Time to wake, my _valkyrja_ , my queen,” he murmured, pressing kisses to her cheeks, her brow, her lips. “My Emma.”

“I can get used to that,” she replied, her voice still thick with sleep. “Hearing you call my name like that.”

“My Emma,” he kissed her nose. “My Emma. Mine, mine, mine.” He peppered her face with kisses, giddy and laughing when she merely swatted his hip. “Mine to have, mine to serve, mine to worship.”

“Yes, yours, and you're mine. My Jefferson, my Hatter, mine mine mine.” her eyes are sharp, even with her voice still clouded by sleep. “Mine to have, mine to serve, mine to worship.”

“A queen does not serve her people, she does not worship them.” he admonishes lightly, but there in an undertone that she understands too well.

“She serves her kingdom, which means her people, but _they_ are not _you_ ,” she watches his face as she speaks, gently traces the stubble over his cheeks, “And the queen must serve her king, just as he must serve her in return.”

“I am no king,” he returns, unsteady, but leans into her touch as she cups his face in her hand.

“Not yet, but I am no queen, either,” she leans in and kisses him, softly, gently, but so bright and full of things left unsaid that the words spill from his lips as soon as she pulls away.

“I love you,” he breathes, and watches as her eyes burn, bright and shining and _pure._ “I have loved you since you first hit me with your car, since you made that first stitch, since you broke free and stood proud and fierce in the face of all that's dark and twisted and hungry. I have loved you since before I knelt in that street, since before the hospital and I-”

She leans in and kisses him again, and he feels it through his body, feels it in his blood and his bones. It's shining and singing and he feels like he could fly, like he could follow his Swan wherever she chose to roam, and he means to tell her so when she speaks, whisper quiet but no less powerful.

“I love you too.”

-o-

There is bedlam and madness and insanity the next day, when her family finally tracks her to his doorstep, but there are no apologies. She stands firm and fierce, bright and shining and everything that a Queen should be, everything of the Queen she will become, and he could not be prouder to fall to his knees and swear his fealty, over and over again.

Later that night, she swears herself to him, and for the first time since Wonderland, he feels complete.

He feels like he could fly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, WOW. I finally forced myself to finish this beast, for which I apologize. The last time I watched OuaT was years ago, because I fell out of love with the story and where it was heading, which meant I lost all inspiration for this fic. I *did* promise to finish it, and so here it is.
> 
> Thank you all for following along, and I'm sorry it took me so long to deliver.


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